


Complications

by JehanFerres



Series: Too Close to the Sun [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/JehanFerres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan has a panic attack. Combeferre helps him cope with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

Combeferre, as usual, woke up to an empty bed. Jehan, however, wasn’t sat on the edge of the bed as he usually was when Combeferre woke, either writing or contemplating – instead, the door to the bedroom was open, and Combeferre could see him through the aperture. He was, it appears, talking to somebody he didn’t want to be talking to, looking at him. His hands were balled in fists at his sides, and there was practically electricity sparking across his skinny figure.

“This isn’t just about you. It’s about what’s best for all of us.”

Combeferre sat up, frowning – the man addressing him didn’t sound anything like anybody he was familiar with, but apparently Jehan knew him, listening to the man’s tone. Combeferre wanted to go to see if Jehan is okay or if he needed any help of any sort, but he was still rather stiff (and a little sore) from last night. A bruise was beginning to form on his left shoulder, as well as scratches on his back, which fanned out across his shoulders, and bites on his chest and neck.

As should probably have become evident by now, Combeferre put up with a lot.

Combeferre jolted back to reality as Jehan all but screamed, “Get out, and leave me alone! There is a reason I haven’t spoken to you since I left and this is it!” at whoever had called on them, stormed back into the bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. Combeferre gave him a moment to get his breath back and to get back to himself, before propping himself up on one arm and rubbing a hand over Jehan’s back. Jehan batted him off and then rolled away, lying with his back to Combeferre.

Instead of asking, Combeferre got out of bed and went to make breakfast – or, rather, a slightly early lunch, as it was already twelve. After briefly struggling with the stove in their small kitchen and managing to make soup, Combeferre realised that he hadn’t heard anything from Jehan since he had – rather dramatically – returned to their bedroom. While Jehan’s moods tended to be intense, the worst tended to be brief, and he would be back and smiling, albeit weakly, within about ten minutes – which was about half the time figuring out the stove and making soup had taken.

Rather than calling to Jehan, therefore, Combeferre decided to go and see what was wrong: he took the pan of soup off the heat, and went back into the bedroom. Jehan was lying face-down on the bed again, and Combeferre could tell that he wasn’t crying but something else was clearly very much wrong. While he wasn’t sobbing, his hands were shaking, and when Combeferre reached a hand out to gently brush against the poet’s back, he felt deathly cold.

Combeferre listened for a moment, until he heard Jehan’s breath breaking sharply through the silence: he seemed to be hyperventilating, which, while something which happened quite a bit, very rarely happened with this intensity. Combeferre sat down beside the bed, getting a book and reading that while he waited for Jehan to recover from… whatever this was.

Eventually, he heard Jehan roll onto his back, and when he looked up again, the poet was sat, hugging his knees, and still shaking. Combeferre got up and sat down on the other side of the bed, crossing his legs. Jehan buried his head in his knees. Combeferre could hear him trying to get his breathing back to normal.

Eventually, Combeferre reached over for Jehan’s hand, gently lacing his fingers through the little poet’s and squeezing lightly. Jehan gripped his hand tight, nails digging into the skin on the back as his breathing sped up a little again.

“Count to ten when you breathe in and when you breathe out,” Combeferre suggested gently, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of Jehan’s hand. Jehan squeezed his hand until his breathing returned to normal, at which point he curled against Combeferre’s chest, releasing the philosopher’s hand. Combeferre put his arms around him, interlocking his hands over Jehan’s left side and tucking the blankets up around the poet. “What was that about?” he asked gently.

Jehan shrugged. “It-it’s been h-happening for as-as-as long a-as I can rem… remember,” he mumbled. Combeferre nodded, knowing that Jehan tended to stutter when he was agitated, regardless of his mental state. “Th-thank you f-for n-not shouting a-a-at me,” he added, leaning up and kissing Combeferre, who smiled against the little poet’s lips.

“Why would I have?” he asked as he pulled away.

“M-my father d-does,” Jehan mumbled in response. “Th-that was him. H-he found out about…” He gestured to the two of them. “T-this.”

“I see.” Combeferre rubbed his back, and pressed a kiss into Jehan’s hair.

Jehan kissed Combeferre’s chest, sniffing softly and curling into the blankets. “Y-you think it’s my f-fault, don’t you?” he mumbled.

“Of course not. You aren’t at all to blame for your father’s actions, and, honestly, I would say he’s the one who isn’t right here – not you.” Combeferre was well aware of Jehan’s insecurity about his sexuality; it tended to be what caused them to fight, although arguments of any kind were rare, and generally resolved very quickly, if not by them then with help from Courfeyrac, although that happened extremely rarely.

“He wants me to go and see him,” Jehan mumbled against Combeferre’s chest. “I can hardly refuse him; I-I know he… he still hasn’t g-got past my mother dying, but… but…” He trailed off, sighing. “I’m being ridiculous. I’m sorry. B-blood is thicker than water, supposedly…”

“Mm, but what you’re actually thinking of is ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’. You should never feel as though you’re obligated to care for your family, nor should you have to force any other relationships,” Combeferre soothed. Jehan smiled and wrapped his arms around the philosopher’s neck.

“Th-thank you, love,” he said softly, nuzzling into Combeferre’s shoulder with a smile. “I… I still feel as though I should, though – I-I haven’t… I haven’t b-been to her grave s-since I left for U-University,” he said softly.

Combeferre nodded. “How old were you when she died?”

“S-six weeks old. I-I was a difficult birth.” Jehan sighed. “I never knew her, but I still f-feel closer to her th-than I ever h-have to my father. H-he’s a horrible man.”

“I can see that,” Combeferre replied, hoping that the poet would stop shaking soon. “Do you want to talk, if it would help to do so?”

Jehan shook his head. “I d-don’t think it would. I-I’ve thought about it too m-much already,” he admitted. “C-can we talk about something else? I-I’m exhausted but I don’t think I c-could sleep.”

“I’ll bore you with the workings of the human heart, then. That’s generally enough to make anyone fall asleep, even Joly,” Combeferre quipped.


End file.
